


her hair was midnight black and all her mystery dwelled within

by Nike_SGA



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 02:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20922656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nike_SGA/pseuds/Nike_SGA
Summary: 'He squints at Miss Baxter for a second, as he registers that something’s not quite right, something’s different, and when it dawns on him what it is he can’t stop himself from exclaiming:“You’ve cut your hair!” 'A very short Baxley fic about a haircut.





	her hair was midnight black and all her mystery dwelled within

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is entirely dedicated to Raquel Cassidy's haircut for the DA movie. That is its whole earthly purpose. I'm not even sorry. Title from Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, 'Black Hair'.

Joe bustles in from the cold, forcing the back door closed against the chill wind that threatens to spill forth into the servant’s corridor, and blows on his hands, cursing himself for forgetting his gloves in his hurry. It’s been a week or two since he was last up at the Abbey, the run-up to Christmas keeping him so busy at the school that he hasn’t even had time to pop in for a visit, but when he’d received a message from Mister Barrow asking to see him about filling in as a footman for some event or the other the Crawley’s were hosting in the coming month, he’d seized a spare few minutes and made his way up from the village. The comforting smell of warm stew wafts towards him from the kitchen, and he smiles, following it through to the servants’ hall, where the sight of a familiar figure makes him smile even wider.

Miss Baxter is sitting almost with her back to him, bent over her sewing machine, fixing a seam or a hem on some dress or another of her ladyship’s, the cold light from the winter’s afternoon illuminating her dark hair and what little of her profile he can see. He takes a moment to just look at her, thankful that the hall is otherwise empty, and feels a warmth blossom in his chest that he’s become almost accustomed to now, whenever he sees her. He can see her lashes nearly brushing her pale cheeks as she looks down at her work, and her fingers, light and nimble from practice, as they feed material carefully under the needle. Her movements are relaxed and unhurried, her shoulders loose, so unlike the way she often holds herself in company: tensed and ready to escape. 

Not with him though, he thinks, a little gratified. Maybe to begin with - _ definitely _to begin with - but over the years they’ve known one another she’s lost that slightly hunted look, and he knows she feels comfortable in his presence. Safe even. It’s no small thing after the time she’s had, and he allows himself to feel rather pleased about it. He cherishes the trust she has him; her irrevocable belief that, even though the rest of the world thinks he’s rather an idiot, he’s a good, kind man whose faith in her is somehow important. She cares about him, and he more than cares about her. He misses her. 

His gaze falls to her hands again and he thinks about all the times she’s taken his arm shyly, touched his sleeve or his hand tentatively with a smile, or held on to him and laughed in delight as he danced her around the servants’ hall. He feels that flush again as he lets his eyes wander up her arms and over her shoulders and thinks of the press of her body against his. She dips her head forward over her sewing a little more, and exposes a slender path of skin between the collar of her dress and her hair as she does so. Just for a moment - just a _ moment_, mind - Joe lets himself think about stepping forward, placing his hands on her shoulders and lowering his lips to that strip of revealed skin, hearing her gasp in shock at the sudden coldness of his mouth against the warm curve of her neck, tipping her head back into his kiss with a sigh.

Or more likely she’d get the fright of her life and stab him with her seam ripper, he chides himself drily.

Still, it’s an old fantasy he’s never given up on, kissing her neck and letting his hands wander into her hair, unpinning her long tresses and running his fingers through them, hearing her murmur into his ear as he-

He frowns. _ Wait a minute._

He squints at Miss Baxter for a second, as he registers that something’s not quite right, something’s _ different_, and when it dawns on him what it is he can’t stop himself from exclaiming:

“You’ve cut your hair!” 

It’s a miracle she doesn’t rip the dress she’s mending in two as she jumps a mile with a startled squeak, and whips around in her chair to face him. “_Mister Molesley!” _

He’s too fascinated and affronted to even reply, and he strides forward until he’s beside her, staring at her new, short bob with wide-eyes. “You have! You’ve cut your hair!”

Her hand flies to the hair in question and she glares at him with a mixture of irritation and wariness. “Yes. Ages ago.” There’s a slight hint of accusation in her voice and he lets himself feel a little guilty at how long it’s been since they’ve seen one another (His fault. He’s been so _ busy_.)

“It’s…”

He catches the defiance in her eyes, and behind it the uncertainty as she waits for him to finish, and his heart skips for a second as he realises she’s uneasy about his response. As if he could ever find her anything less than perfect. He takes a moment to mourn his long-held desire to bury his fingers in her long dark hair, to see what she looked like with it undone and wild and spread out behind her on his pillow, and then he lets it go.

“It’s lovely.”

She blinks. “Oh.”

“It is,” he assures her, and with every second he becomes more and more appreciative of the new style: how it frames her angular face and accents the sweep of her cheekbones, how it almost-but-not-quite brushes her collar. How long and elegant it makes her neck. How much easier it would be to brush away to place a kiss under her ear.

“It’s just more practical,” she says, bringing him out of his reverie. She still looks a little unsure, but she drops her hand to her lap and offers him a small smile. He grins in response. 

“It suits you.” Her smile widens. 

“Do you think so?”

“Absolutely. I mean, it suited you before, of course, but I like it.” He realises this might be construed as rather forward and adds hastily, “I mean, not that it matters if _ I _like it-” 

She’s laughing now, gently, eyes twinkling with amusement and again he marvels at the way she can laugh at him without making him feel like he’s the butt of the joke, and he laughs with her, light embarrassment tinging his cheeks, an answering flush rising on hers. He thinks they’d probably stay there and grin at each other fondly all day, if Thomas Barrow hadn’t chosen that moment to stalk into the hall and interrupt. 

“Can I help you with something?” Barrow’s voice barks from behind him, and Joe turns, still grinning. Barrow’s glaring at him appraisingly, though more out of habit than malice, Joe suspects. “I thought you wanted to see me,” he retorts and Barrow rolls his eyes, and gestures expansively with his arm towards the butler’s room. 

“Then stop bothering Miss Baxter and step into my office,” he says smartly, and ushers Joe out into the hall.

He turns just before he exits to steal one last glance at Miss Baxter, who has returned her attention to her machine, a smile still twitching at her lips. As he watches, she reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering just a moment. Joe trails his gaze down her neck again, and swallows, biting back another grin.

“Molesley!”

“Coming!” he calls after Barrow, and follows him cheerfully down the hall.


End file.
